


Lies and Idle Fancies

by appleschnapple



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:05:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleschnapple/pseuds/appleschnapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrating lovely Morrigan for Morrigan appreciation week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raised to be as she is

Morrigan has never been under any delusions of what her life has been leading up to – perhaps not the specifics, but you would have to be a fool to not realise that she was living her life for Flemeth, and as Flemeth chose. A most frustrating sort of irony – they live free from the Circle and free from the questioning eyes of all but the most daring or lost travellers (for the most part), and yet Morrigan knows she'll most likely never leave the ramshackle hut in the middle of the swamp. It's drilled into her every time she steps out the door, every time she curses when the bog clings to her boots and she has to struggle to pull it loose. She can turn into a bird, a wolf; almost any creature that wanders the Wilds and lingers long enough for her to study it, but even miles above – the wretched hut just another dot surrounded by many, many more – she still returns without fail. (Usually she brings with her a freshly killed rabbit or deer that she shares with Flemeth, the person – if so generous a word can be used – she loathes and respects in equal measure. Flemeth will generally tell her that she has done something wrong, that the meat is too tough or too rubbery, and will never, _ever_ volunteer to cook herself. Surprisingly, Morrigan doesn't care too terribly – it makes it all the more satisfying when she does it perfectly, and all Flemeth can manage is a tight-lipped nod.)

It's only recently that she's been given something more of an idea of what Flemeth has in store for her. Flemeth's yellow, toothy grin as she says, “A Blight is coming, child.”

(Morrigan wants to protest that she is no longer a child when her mother calls her such, but she sometimes gets the impression that everyone is a child in Flemeth's eyes. It's something she prefers not to dwell upon.)

And then Flemeth pulls out one of her dusty tomes, the sort that requires careful handling so not to crumble into dust itself, and gets Morrigan to sit beside her, much like she had when Morrigan _was_ a child.

The stories from her childhood were nothing like this, and for a brief, indulgent moment she lets herself miss the silly, fanciful child with perpetually grubby hands and no idea what's in store for her.

Flemeth is looking at her expectantly, golden eyes sharp and bright beyond their years.

Morrigan nods, as if there were any other option.


	2. Of competence and lack thereof

She is surrounded by fools. This was not surprising, but it is at least somewhat annoying to realise that even the man she thought marginally less incompetent is struggling at the most basic of tasks. He's been wrestling with his tent for close to an hour now, and it's possible the thing is even further away from being finished from when he started.

It's been raining for the last half hour or so, and he's starting to look utterly pitiful, soaked hair clinging to his face and parting for his pointed ears. Morrigan isn't quite cruel enough to laugh (although if it had been Alistair, she certainly _would_ have been), but she also doesn't care quite enough to go outside and volunteer her aid.

Anyway, it's a skill he needs to pick up sooner or later. Coddling him will not help, so it's a _good_ thing Alistair and the Chantry sister have left to go hunting. (Morrigan doesn't trust the Chantry sister as far as she can throw her, and it has little to do with the sun embroidered on her tunic. It has far more to do with the woman's attitude; as though she's still testing how much she can get away with without revealing too much. Morrigan knows little of the world outside the Wilds – only as much as she could observe from a safe distance or gather from stories – but she knows a great deal about hiding and concealing one's true nature, and Leliana is hiding more than perhaps even she realises.)

He slips in the mud and falls ungracefully to the ground, his fine Circle robes suddenly drenched in dirt and she simply cannot suppress a snort.

Surprisingly, the look she gets in return is more bashful than angry; a weak grin on a face coloured bright with humiliation. Such a strange little man.

He makes to get up, grabbing to a nearby bush to support his weight – and completely overestimates the strength of said bush, falling again and taking most of it with him.

The sight is simply _too_ pitiful now, and Morrigan decides that it's no use to all of them if the (slightly more) competent Warden drowns himself in about four inches of mud. (Not least because it would leave _her_ with Alistair, and that is a thought just too dreadful to contemplate. His whining – worse, his _joking_ – would be unbearable.)

She pulls her hood over her head, and marches purposefully over to him. It doesn't take much to haul him to his feet – he weighs probably less than she does, and is a good few inches shorter – and he makes an utterly pointless attempt to clean himself off once he's standing upright. She rolls her eyes at him, and he gives her a sheepish smile.

“Tents are hard,” he says, as if _that_ excuses this ridiculous display.

“Or perhaps you are simply inept?”

“That is also a possibility,” he concedes, and – bizarrely – it takes all of her restraint not to smile at that little remark. It's not that she enjoys weakness, quite the opposite, but she can at least appreciate people admitting their faults. “Could you maybe...” She purses her lips at him, and his voice becomes very small as he continues, “...lend a hand?”

She tuts, but offers him a slight nod. “If only to put an end to this embarrassment.”

In the end, she's quite sure she's lent out both hands, and swatted his hands (smooth and delicate _Circle_ hands, ones that have done nothing more strenuous than hold a staff) well away from the tent lest he knock it over. By the time she's finished he's soaked to the bone and she's more than slightly damp herself.

The look he sends her way is exasperating in its gratefulness, and Morrigan suddenly wants nothing more than to make that earnest expression go away. She could do it easily with just a few brusque words; watch his face fall and soft eyes turn stony.

She could.

But she wouldn't, and she tells herself it's because she needs him. She doesn't need to be _nice_ , but she can perhaps afford to be a little bit less abrasive. Just for him. Just for now.

“Thank you,” he says. “I'll try to be less abysmal in the future.”

“See that you do,” she says stiffly.


	3. The sort that will never be missed

“Such a stern face on such a _captivating_ woman! Surely–”

Morrigan dislikes the elf. (Not to be mistaken for the Warden, who – while _an_ elf – is above being referred to as such.)

(Even if his habit of picking up strays has only worsened since their visit to the Dalish.)

The elf makes her uneasy, darting through conversation at a pace even she finds difficult to keep up with and still remain on top. While she watches him, he watches her back, and she wonders exactly how much he sees. Then he catches her eye and winks, and she looks away crossly and returns to whatever she was busying herself with.

She can't even silence him the way she can the others – a few sharp words that make Alistair huff indignantly or Leliana even more self-righteous than usual – because he throws the words back at her. It's a game both of them have played for years, and he has had far more opportunity to master it.

It puts her on edge. She grew up in a swamp – and by and large, she is content with that; not having to live under the Chantry's heel and usually away from the prying eyes of templars. (And any that did come were quickly dealt with – or not so quickly, depending on Flemeth's mood.) She is (unsurprisingly) _well aware_ of that. In this instance, however, she does not appreciate the reminder.

She wears feathers, and thick, clunky jewellery – the silver brooch the Warden gave her not included. Her clothes are much-patched, the leather of her skirt fraying around the edges. It's already drawn pointed looks her way (as well as Leliana's _tremendously_ helpful fashion tips) and most of the time she will happily ignore them with her head held high. She doesn't miss their scorn, but she also doesn't miss the longing, heated stares, the conflicted feelings of contempt and desire. _That_ she enjoys, knowing that she holds more power with one heavy lidded gaze or quirk of the lips than those silly little men and women could ever dream of.

Sometimes, though, she glances at the finer clothes; sported only by the wealthiest of merchants who have dominated whatever little village they're wandering through, and feels just the slightest bit wistful. She has no _need_ for trinkets and baubles, but she supposes not all desires are logical.

(On the other hand, the desire to set the elf's hair alight most certainly is.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, operation 'update everyday of Morrigan week' was an abysmal failure - in part because AO3 was being ridiculous, in part because I am being a responsible student and in part because I have been out all night getting drunk. (Tragically, this would have been appropriate if last week had been Oghren week. [Going to justify this by saying that _every_ week is Oghren week, so long as my liver can take it.])


	4. Of giant phalluses

Morrigan is not afraid of speaking her mind, and is scornful of those that are. She is certainly not afraid of speaking her mind here, with everything she ever suspected about the Circle laid out clearly in front of her.

(In retrospect, it may have been wise to have held her tongue, just this once.)

“It surprises me this doesn't happen more often,” she begins, just another of a string of similar remarks she has made ever since she was dragged in to this blasted tower, and the Warden cuts in, his words uncharacteristically edged.

“Shut up. I don't care what you think about the Circle, just. Shut. Up.”

She considers listening to him – she's seen him in combat and knows how dangerous he can be – and there is little to be gained from needlessly provoking him, but then the old hag the Warden brought with them sends a disapproving look her way, and _Alistair_ looks sickeningly smug, and her lip curls as the words pour out, unbidden: “And here I thought you encouraged _sharing_ , or is that only when it doesn't strike too close to–”

“I said _shut up_ ,” he snarls. “Can you at least _try_ and recognise that maybe I don't want to hear you talking about how weak Circle mages are when they're all... when they've just...” His normally placid face is contorted into something vicious and ugly and _pained_ , and she isn't quite sure what she's about to say when her mouth opens slightly.

Fortunately, it doesn't matter. The anger floods out of him as quickly as it came, leaving something helpless and defeated in its wake. He shakes his head as he mutters, “Sorry,” and moves ahead to put distance between him and the rest of the group. Wynne quickens her pace to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, while Alistair gives her a _look_. He does not look smug any longer.

She avoids his gaze, and instead lets her own drift across the stonework. A body is lying a dozen or so feet away; a deep hole gored through its chest. It's one of the least brutalised they've seen thus far, and the face is untouched save for a smear of blood across its cheek. The eyes are still open; surprised in life and glassy in death. Deep, amber eyes. Dark hair.

“Her name was Amell,” the Warden says stiffly from up ahead. Then he pauses, head cocked to one side. “You'd have liked her,” he adds, and doesn't say another word to her until they're back at camp – the mages saved, the demons defeated – and he presses Flemeth's grimoire into hands.

The leather is worn and aged and makes her hands itch with anticipation. She didn't even notice him pick it up, assumed he'd brushed off her request completely.

“I...” she says, a little uncertainly, “...thank you. And,” she grits her teeth as though working through something painful, “I apologise for my earlier behaviour. It is possible I... misjudged...”

He rescues her with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “You don't need to do this. Not if you don't want to.”

And part of her wants to leap on the opportunity for an escape, to avoid the uncomfortable direction this conversation is going. She wills herself onwards, because few things worth attaining can be found on the easier path. “Mother was always quite insistent that the mages in the Circle let themselves be corralled that way. That we were better than them for resisting the templars.”

“I was four when the templars took me way.” There's nothing accusatory about his words, but they hang in the air regardless.

“If Flemeth hadn't... if she weren't...”

“A terrifying apostate of legend?”

She rolls her eyes, but continues, “It is possible I could have ended up in the Circle myself.”

These too linger for a moment, and she begins to wonder if she's somehow said the wrong thing when his face breaks into a grin - a real one, this time - and he says, “You'd look _ridiculous_ in Circle robes.”

She ignores him for the rest of the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, I've gone to university for the first time and I have fresher's flu and I am going to be so busy and _yet_ I have decided to try and write something everyday for Morrigan week (even though I use my tumblr almost exclusively for lurking). This is basically a shining, gleaming reminder of how ridiculous I am. If it was shining. Or gleaming. Or doing anything other than clutter up AO3.
> 
> On the other hand, Morrigan is really quite amazing, so I figure it basically balances out.


End file.
